Duquesne was a man of action. He wasted not a precious moment in feckless argument. It was hard that he should have to share this treasure with another. But in seven minutes he was at New Scotland Yard, and in fifteen he was back again to his great good fortune, with Inspector Sheffield.
The matter was adjusted. In the notebooks of Messrs Duquesne and Sheffield the following was written:
"Sheard, Gleaner, Tudor Street. Laurel Cottage, Dulwich Village, eight to-night."
Returning to the Astoria to make arrangements for the evening's expedition, Duquesne upon entering his room, found there a large-boned man, with a great, sparsely-covered skull, and a thin, untidy beard. He sat writing by the window, and, at the other's entrance, cast a slow glance from heavy-lidded eyes across his shoulder.
M. Duquesne bowed profoundly, hat in hand.
It was the great Lemage.
There were overwhelming forces about to take the field. France, England and the United States were combining against Séverac Bablon. It seemed that at Laurel Cottage he was like to meet his Waterloo.
At twenty-five minutes to seven that evening a smart plain-clothes constable reported in Chief Inspector Sheffield's room.
"Well, Dawson?" said the inspector, looking up from his writing.
"Laurel Cottage, Dulwich, was let by the Old College authorities, sir, to a Mr. Sanrack a month ago."